Short story contest :: Your vote counts!

Bryan told me about this Amazon.com Short Story Contest through Gather.com, so I entered a story I've been working on called, "The World's Most Famous Colorist." It's only up through Sept 13th, so please go today to join (it's free) read, and hopefully vote. It's sortof a flickr/myspace/squidoo for writing.

Note on 9/17: Voting is over, waiting to hear. If it doesn't make it, i'll re-post on gather.com

Stairs, architecture and modernity

With a cannonball lodged in its wall, the Cannonball House still stands on Morris Avenue, reminding us all of the Township of Springfield's role in the Revolutionary War.

The British, though, won the Battle of Springfield, and the rebel Colonists, under the leadership of George Washington, fell back to Morristown where they'd turn their eyes west to cross the Delaware. Pride in the township's history is evident also in the Colonial-style architecture of Town Hall, the high school, post office, and several other buildings.

The architecture of modern Springfield, however, is what Bryan notices most.
Ranches, split-levels, bi-levels. Much of the town looks like it was built in one week in 1950. I teach Bryan the difference between a split-level and a bi-level. Together, they're probably 75% of the town's homes.

A primer for the uninitiated: a split-level (pictured above, left), the more popular of the cousins has half-flights of stairs everywhere, so your living room is up half a flight from the entry, and the bedrooms are another half a flight up. The kitchen is either on the ground floor or on the half-flight up. The bi-level, however, is the more exotic, although awkward design: you actually enter the house in between stories. You must choose either down or up for the rest of the house. So the bedrooms are either down or up.

Growing up in a one-story ranch, I was envious of friends in split-levels, bi-levels or the best of all, the center-hallway three-story which had an elegant, full staircase right in the middle of a big house, with large square rooms. We had stairs to our ranch's basement or to my illegal attic bedroom, but it just wasn't the same. I never understood why my parents couldn't have us live like normal people in split-levels.

Things to come full circle, though. My brother lives in a split-level, my center has a center-hallways staircase, and I live on the top two floors of an 1846 brownstone.

Stairs, stairs, stairs.

Accents are for emphasis

Since childhood, I have preferred people with foreign accents. I believe accents adds dignity and character to, well, both of us. I was, after all, a modern American young person representing the future, and you were the old world, obligated to teach me it all. It was a crucial relationship to make up for the shortcomings of my 'situation' until I could correct it.

Manhattan was over thirty minutes and thirty miles away from Springfield, and our town's diversity was best illustrated by three different synagogues -- one each for Reform, Conservative and Orthodox. There was a small population of black people, who for some reason lived among four streets, which formed the "Square" on the south side of town. But mostly it was a town of Italians, Irish, WASPs, and Jews. Interesting in the fifties maybe when the town of split-levels was built in a day, but boring for 1978, when I started to crave the world outside.

My friends' parents from other places were my temporary outlet: just talking to them made me feel cosmopolitan. I wanted to drink coffee with them, to talk about art and literature and tell them I was taking French. Nate's parents, for example were from Romania, and there were times when I could barely and happily understand a word they said. Roger's mother was from Hungary, and when he would do something wrong, which was gratefully often, I could hear her yell Rogah!. He was embarrassed,but I was thrilled. Bland's parents were from China, and she taught me to drink hot tea during tennis practice, which showed you that it was more than accents. Chickie's mom was Danish, which I explained to my camp friends is a completely different country than Holland. And no, Pennsylvania Dutch is not Dutch, but a bastardization of German, which anyone who has ever traveled (in their mind or by aeroplane) knows is Deutsch. There were things to learn. And looking around their houses with sculpture, paintings, books and music, there things to see and hear.

Come to think about it, most of my friends were first-generation Americans. Diversity to me wasn't race or religion; it was nations. Curiously, Northern European, but still. And in Springfield in the seventies and eighties, it was a start. I really despised my own homogeneity and would quiz my mother for some background element to add color to what a gray and predictable northern European stock. From Poland and Russia who fled the shtetl at the turn of the century. They learned English quickly. Blah, blah. I wasn't even Sephardic, which would be interesting at Passover.

My friends didn't like it, of course. They were embarrassed by their parents' accents. Besides, in our teenager years, the idea was to avoid interaction with adults, not talk to them for more than two minutes in passing. We were too busy lying to them about where we were going. We had sleepovers with girls, we would drive into New York, we would sneak into a local bar.

Eventually, it didn't matter. I would start to travel. To Europe any chance I could, and then, finally, with every stomach and allergy medicine I could fit in my bag, to China.

Latch-key legends

I hated that my parents always were home. After school, at dinner, on the weekends. They were, always, there.

Cool kids had absent parents, parents who worked late, parents who traveled for business... parents who didn't hover.

The best example is probably Alex Miller's parents, whom I met probably not more than twice, though I knew him for ten years. The Millers were exotic (read: money), living in a fantastic Spanish style ranch on the top of the mountain. Alex, and earlier, his older sister and brother (who was in my sister's grade) was watched over by a housekeeper named Pearl, who was strict but with a smile. As far I was concerned, Pearl ran the house. Pearl seemed to like me especially and would serve us limitless treats and put up with Alex's demands for more cookies or me staying for dinner. There was warmth in their relationships, though, where he knew there was a line he couldn't cross and one in which she found blurred. I would go to Alex's house as often as I could. Not just because of Pearl. But because Alex had every toy imaginable, especially the latest Atari war games. My favorite was "Star Raiders." The only downside of visiting Alex, however, was that he was a total jock, and there always was a risk we'd have to play soccer, and once, even plastic jai-lai. At least my parents never forced me to play sports.

Chaz Weiss also had parents working, and I spent a lot of time at his big house on Hillside Avenue. Both parents were doctors, one a radiologist, and the other, well, I have no idea, but he did publish a book. Chaz also had a Pearl, but she wasn't 'live-in' and Chaz's adored me, especially because she thought I kept Chaz on the 'right track' - doing his homework and what not. A good influence is what they call it now. Chaz's Pearl encouraged me to visit often and I found myself staying over Chaz's constantly, nearly every week. We could stay up late, logging onto his parents CompuServe computer network (this is pre-internet) on which we'd pretend to be adult men hitting on women. We'd order sneak across the highway to play video games at the Ground Round, or we'd stay in, order in pizza, watch movies or go swimming -- Chaz has the one thing Alex didn't -- a pool.

Nitter's folks worked too, and his mother's ob/gyn office was even in the house. But they trusted him on an unheard-of level: when his parents went on vacation to, say, Mexico, Nitter stayed home alone. This was utterly fascinating and drove my own parents crazy. "How could they leave him alone? Maybe he should stay here?" But Nitter was a trustworthy, A-plus student, whose behavior was more mature than people five years older. He probably could microwave dinners by-himself and take out the trash. And he did have a moped to take himself places. But a thirteen year-old boy taking care of himself for a week...alone? Even if his parents were...European?!?!

Why weren't my parents rich? Why didn't they work more? Why didn't they trust me? Why weren't they... European?

The lasting lens of a 10 year-old

My mother was pleased to point out to her two sons in the back seat the gray buildings and wharfs along the river. "That's Electric Boat, where they build submarines."

We were on our way to visit my mother's cousin Iris in New London, Connecticut, and the trivia about these innocuous looking buildings made the trip more interesting. Certainly more interesting than Mystic, in which neither my brother John or I had any interest.

"Nuclear submarines," my older brother corrected. John was 14, I was 10. He knew everything, and I believed him. My sister was at college, so there could be no counterweight. Then John turned to me and confided, "This is a big nuclear target."

I looked out the window in horror. Each time we visited, I dreaded saying good bye to Iris and her family -- as if could be the last time I'd see them.

This was not the only nuclear threat on my extended family. We had cousins in Norfolk News in Virginia, which John said was another prime shipbuilding port.

John was fascinated by armies, navies, and air forces. He taught me the difference between the F-14 and F-15 fighter jet, and I read his back issues of Foreign Policy and marveled at his report comparing the Soviet and American navies

Decades later, despite the thawed cold war, I'm still nervous passing through eastern Connecticut. Not to mention, by the way, upstate farms with their supposedly innocuous silos. You might romance storage of animal feed. But I hear my brother's voice telling me the truth: "Mat, that's where they hide the ICBMs."

Shadows on Twenty-Seventh Street

Today, I was in the aisle of a bodega by work, and I saw at the register the shadow of a friend.

She looked as Jyl would look at 37 or 40. The long, curly, brown hair. The big, bright, wide smile. The questions to the cashier about his family and the picture behind the register. The laugh, the commiseration, the nod of the head. The utter humanity.

I froze. It was as if my friend, my ex-girlfriend, never left this planet. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to hug her. I just wanted 10 minutes of her time to pretend that we are still at summer camp, we are still in high school, we are still at a JFTY event, we are still having dinner at a B&B in Scranton, we are still in her parents living room watching a movie.

Jyl - I type her name and know I'm partly responsible. I dropped a 't' and, in concert, she changed 'i' to 'y' and blamed me with a laugh, a giggle, a smile. When she died, her name was Jill but everyone was so apologetic since we all knew what she had chosen. In my high school yearbook, she snuck in her photo so I would find it. It said, so you think of me with surprise sometimes.

Jyl connected with everyone. She had this way about her that was so effortless. This actually isn't the first time I've found myself in the presence of her shadow. I like it. I like that she moves with me. I love that she still surprises me.

Rhonda in Rhinebeck

You never know who you'll meet.

On our way home this Sunday, we stopped for lunch in Rhinebeck, a quaint and upscale down in northern Dutchess County, not far from the Hudson River, which dates back to 1686 (or 1688, depending on which sign you believe). Leaving Ezra in the car for the hour, we chose a place with outdoor seating, and at the next table, a woman suggests the salmon, though "Everything's good."

Bryan was reserved about chatting over lunch, but the second I saw her drop some rolls into her bag in between courses, I knew she'd have a good story. Within minutes, I learn the necklace is from New Orleans, she works for a law firm, and about the turtle she's taken in -- a shell smaller than it should be and a deformed penis as well.

Rhonda is a Manhattanite who came up to Rhinebeck for the day by train. She's come up "dozens of times since 9/11... for comfort."

Obviously comfortable with us, Rhonda holds up a pad and admits that she is doing research -- for a murder mystery she's writing! She hasn't yet decided on the murder but she has decided on a protaganist -- a left-handed robot! And did we know that today is international left-handers day? No, I did not, and I'm left-handed. So, too, is the guy at the table on the other side which really excites all of us. The guy at the other table and she were already talking before we sat down -- apparently, his next door neighbor was in the Weddings listings of the Sunday paper that day -- just a town away too, at a party at which each guest brings a dish.

I asked Rhonda if she thought that meant you didn't bring a gift, and she gave me a wink to say she thought exactly the same thing.

She has other questions for her research -- did either of us have imaginary friends as children. I wish I had had; she was hungry for material.

As we crossed the parking lot to the bookstore, I asked Bryan if we should've given her a ride back. But of course, it's a silly thought: we don't eat rolls anymore.

Metafiction

Jonathan Dayton Regional High School was one of four regional schools in a grand educational experiment to serve the educational needs of six county towns. It failed, eventually but it was interesting while it lasted.

On the outside, Dayton was a beautiful colonial-style building with a clock tower and a confident frame. On the inside, it was three squares of hallways, of which I got to know every inch. Active in many clubs, I became a newspaper editor of the Dayton Journal, for which I also wrote the TV column (mostly about Dynasty) and served as president of the French club (croissants and orange juice was a profitable fundraiser) and during my senior year, as president of the Student Council.

One bright spot for me was the library where I did weekly announcements and which I turned into my mobile office. For most of the four years, I had the run of the place and I flexed my power subtlely -- few noticed how often weekly student council meetings occurred during my gym class.

I think I only questionably abused my multi-channel power once.
Angry at the mediocre counseling provided to paranoid college applicants like myself, I wrote an anonymous letter to the editor (myself), complaining at how asleep the counseling team was. The local newspaper also picked up on it with the front page headline "Letter Ruffles Feathers." The principal and staff were embarrassed, parents felt vindicated and called to complain as well. Rumors spread about who the anonymous writer was and people begged the newspaper staff to reveal the source. One beloved teacher, of course, knew it was me but kept my secret and watched my back.

To address the issue head-on, I went on the local cable show "Eye on Springfield"(hosted by my friend Nate) as student body president to talk about the anonymous letter sent to the school editor. I agreed with the writer's view, added additional commentary as student body president, and defended the editor's choice to protect the anonymity. Watching the tape of the show years later, I can still see the smile in Nate's questioning, trying not to laugh.

So basically, on my best friend's show, I was providing expert commentary on my own view —published by myself.

Zucker Seeded Second

Tennis was the only sport I played, and I played with my whole heart.

I got lessons three times a week from Susie Ng, whose son (unfortunately named Bland), was in my freshman high school class. We weren't friends, but it was pleasant enough. Susie doted on Bland and also pushed him hard to perform on the court. She had us drink tea before and after practice, though it would take me thirty years and a trip to China to understand the power and role of hot tea in one's body.

I trained hard to get my USTA certification, bouncing balls on my racket hundred of times. Susie also organized the first Springfield Junior Tennis Tournament, and my status as her student got me strong billing.

The news headline on the front page of the local paper was "Ng seeded First; Zucker Second." I was so excited. There was no mention the next week, thankfully of Zucker being defeated 6-0, 6-1 by a pastor's tall son, another Susie Ng student.

Bland and I also played on the high school varsity team, but I rarely got to compete, especially against bigger Jewish towns like Livingston and Millburn where the teams were unbelievable -- all that toughness from kids not allowed to play football in the Fall. My girl friends would come to watch practice, but it was mostly to flirt with their junior and senior crushes -- a ploy to get asked to prom.

Ezra's joke

It's a three-story brownstone so taking Ezra for a walk isn't a simple or fast proposition.

I'm groggy in the morning, and follow him down the flights of stairs, holding his leash to attach by the front door. Ezra is three and a half and a black lab-pit bull mix which makes him sleek, strong and fast when he wants to be.

His tail wags as he goes down the stairs and his butt moves back and forth with every step. Every few steps, he pauses to make sure I'm there with the leash in hand and bag for outside, but he's pretty much in front and leads us.

We reach the foyer door, and as I lean forward to grab the doorknob, he becomes a blur as he flies back up the stairs. I can't catch him, of course, and he won't come if called. I have to follow him back up the three flights and trap him at the front door to our apartment where I can attach his leash and walk him back down.

I fall for it every few days. He thinks it's hysterical.